Three Years, Sherlock?
by Irishchic1234
Summary: Started off as a one-shot but is now a series of one-shots depicting life at 221B
1. Chapter 1

It was an ordinary day in John Watson's life. Completely and utterly ordinary. For the former blogger/best friend of Sherlock Holmes, bordeom was not something that was easy to put up with. But he'd been bored for three years now. And depressed. Nearly suicidal at one point, actually. And all because Sherlock had died.

John refused to believe that he'd committed suicide because all his great deductions were a hoax. Sherlock was ingenious, John had seen it with his own eyes. There was no way possible all the cases he'd solved were merely tricks. Someone as brilliant, as clever as he, would not kill himself. No, Sherlock had done what he'd done for some ulterior motive. Maybe it had helped solve the cases of Moriarty somehow; John didn't know. So many things had confused him about Sherlock. This was just one to add to the huge amount.

John was sitting in 221B with Mrs. Hudson. He hadn't had the heart to move out. So many things reminded him of Sherlock, and that hurt, but it was a good pain. A pain that he needed to keep going, some days. As long as you can feel anything, you're alive. He and Mrs. Hudson had taken to spending time together there, sitting in companionable silence. They didn't talk about the bullet holes fired into the wall, or the violin sitting unplayed in the closet, or the deer-hunting hat still hanging on the hat rack. But perhaps they kept their silence because they both wanted a third voice to join in, and knew it never would.

John took a final sip of his tea and then stood up, grabbing his cane. Almost immediately after Sherlock passed, his limp and tremor had come back, worse than ever. He now needed the cane to walk practically everywhere, which annoyed him more than he cared to admit. But no matter what he tried, the limp wouldn't go away. He'd needed Sherlock to do that.

"I'm going to go to Tesco's." he said to Mrs. Hudson as he put on his jacket. "Do we need anything?"

"Some more milk would nice." she said softly.

John nodded and walked to the door, grabbing his key from the ring and clopping down the stairs of the flat. He stepped out into the cold January air and zipped his jacket up to the neck, breathing in deeply. He looked up and down the street. He saw a couple sitting on a bench, cars, buses and taxis whizzing by on the street and the tall man wearing a long jacket and scarf standing by a lamp post.

What a second. Coat. Scarf. Curly black hair. High cheek bones.

John saw Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes. That arrogant, sociopathic bastard of a man who aggravated him with practically everything he did. Sherlock Holmes, the man who never did the shopping and shot bullets into a wall because he was bored. The man who wore a suit and tie at home, but wore a sheet to Buckingham Palace. The person who could know everything about you with a single glance.

Sherlock bloody Holmes. John's best friend who had died three years ago. John had thought he'd never see him again until he himself died. And yet, there he was, standing outside 221B as if no time had passed at all. John gave a shout and broke off into a sprint, dragging his cane behind him.

" Sherlock!" he screamed as he ran.

John was barely five feet away. Sherlock was opening his arms as if waiting to be embraced, a small smile on his lips. But at the last second, John stopped short, drew his arm back, and punched Sherlock right in the jaw.

The consulting detective staggered back, holding a hand to his face and cursing,

"Jesus, John what was that for?" he mumbled out.

But John had lost any semblance of control he had. He grabbed his cane and started beating Sherlock's legs with it.

"Three-_bloody-_years!" he snarled between each hit. "You let me think you were dead for THREE YEARS, SHERLOCK."

"Let me explain!" he cried, holding onto the fence bars for support.

"YOU BETTER EXPLAIN."

Sherlock lunged forward and grabbed John's fists, holding them tight between his hands to prevent him causing any more damage.

"Breathe, John." he said reassuringly, locking eyes with his best friend. "Breathe, and then I'll explain, alright?"

John nodded, drawing in a shuddering breath. In the few moments he had, Sherlock took in John's current appearance.

_Lost 25 pounds_

_Nightmares, not sleeping regularly _

_Systematic limp is back, along with tremor_

_Obvious depression _

Guilt washed over Sherlock automatically. He knew he'd had to leave, to protect John, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Molly... He'd faked his death to keep the people he loved safe. But he knew it had been hard on all them, John most of all.

"Explain it to me, Sherlock." John said breathlessly.

"I did what I did to protect you. Moriarty was going to kill anyone close to me." Sherlock said urgently. It was imperative John understood, or he'd never forgive him.

"But Moriarty shot himself while you were up on that building. Why couldn't you just come down then?" John asked.

"He had marks-men surrounded us. If they hadn't seen me jump, they would have shot you on sight."

"But how are you still alive? I saw you-"

John's voice broke and he looked at his feet. Sherlock's face softened and he continued, being strong for his friend.

"I enlisted Molly to help me. She got a body from the morgue that looked remarkably similar to me and we put it into the Dumpster that was adjacent to the building. Remember how I made you stay standing in the same spot the entire time?"

John nodded slowly, the details of that awful day gradually coming back to him. He'd done his best to block them from his memory, but when he had nightmares about it practically every night, that was rather hard.

"That was so you couldn't see me land in the Dumpster. Also, the man on the bicycle that ran into you? I paid him to do that so you'd be distracted for a few moments so I could switch the bodies."

It sounded insane. Completely and utterly mad. But this was Sherlock he was talking to. Anything could sound rational coming out of his mouth. With a gasp, the walls John had steadily built up over the past three years broke and all his emotion came flooding out. He flung himself into Sherlock's arms, tears streaming down his face. Sherlock tensed at first, not expecting John's sudden contact. But then he relaxed and enveloped John fully in his embrace, holding him as tight as possible.

"If you _ever _leave me again, I will end you myself." John choked out as he sobbed into Sherlock's shirt.

"Duly noted, John." Sherlock said affectionately.

They hugged for several minutes, just relishing being in each other's company again. Though he'd never admit it to anyone, Sherlock had missed John far more than he'd ever imagined. He didn't realize how used he'd gotten to having the doctor around until he suddenly wasn't. Over the past three years, Sherlock had broken his own rules of no contact and had watched John living his life from afar. Thank God he hadn't gotten married or anything like that. Sherlock didn't think he could have watched the man he loved get married.

Maybe it was time to tell John about Sherlock's feelings. Obviously not today; he'd been shaken up enough. If poor John got another big shock today, he just might enter cardiac arrest, and Sherlock did not remeber CPR. It was another piece of information he'd deleted. But he would tell him soon. Take him out to dinner or something like that. Maybe that place they'd gone during "A Study in Pink." God, Sherlock had missed him. He missed his stupid blog titles and his sly humor and everything that made John _John. _His John.

They broke apart and John sheepishly wiped his eyes. Sherlock felt tears burn his own eyes but he kept them at bay. He wasn't going to cry. John was just staring at him in amazment,

"I still can't believe it's you."

Sherlock nodded, reaching into the inside pocket of his long jacket and withdrawing a small orange blanket. In one swift motion, he had it around John's shoulders and tucked around him.

"What are you doing?"

"It's a shock blanket, I assumed you would need one."


	2. Chapter 2

**I just re-watched Reichenbach...someone please tell me why I did that. Please. Anyways, because of Johnlock feels, I'm now writing fluffy crap. So this is basically turning into a bunch of random one-shots based on the show. Refiew or PM me if you want a particular scenario :) **

Tonight was the night. Sherlock was telling John he felt tonight. It had been out off for far too long, and he needed to tell him this very evening or he'd go mad. (It was also the third year anniversary of Sherlock jumping off a building, but he was trying to distract John from that) So, a sudden confession of feelings of a romantic nature was always distracting, right?

In truth, Sherlock had no idea what he was doing. For once in his life, Sherlock Holmes was totally out of his depth. Should he try and be _romantic _about it? Give him chocolate and write him a poem or some nonsense like that? Or a more direct approach? Walkright up to him, grab him by the shoulders and snog that face off him? How did people do this!

Sherlock kicked the wall in frustration and groanedaloud. From in the kitchen, he saw Mrs. Hudson look at him worriedly. She'd taken his reappearance tolerably well, despite a minor faint and screaming "I KNEW IT. HE WOULDN'T LEAVE US." at the top of her lungs before breaking down into tears. So...tolerably well. As of now, no one else but she and John knew yet.

"Are you alright, dear?" she asked, coming into the living room and looked at him.

"No, Mrs. Hudson, I am not alright." he said scathingly. He knew he was being rude, but he was too nervous to care much. Him, Sherlock Holmes, nervous! What was the world coming to? Damn John Watson.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?"

"I'm in love with someone who will never return the feeling, and I wanted to tell them tonight but now I'm losing my nerve, all right?" he burst out in frustration, flinging himself down on the couch and turning to face the wall. He heard Mrs. Hudson walk over beside him and she put a hand on his shoulder.

"Is it John?" she asked gently. Sherlock turned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Who else? Of course it's John. It's always been John."

He looked at Mrs. Hudson and saw her barely suppressing a smile. He groaned again and covered his face with his hands.

"You knew, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. You're not the only one who can deduct things, you know."

"Does John know?"

"He's oblivious."

Sherlock smiled at that. If there was any word to describe his friend, it was oblivious. He sat up and looked at Mrs. Hudson.

"How do I tell him?"

"I'd take him somewhere that means a lot to both of you and just simply say how you feel. Don't try to impress him with your intellect or anything like that. It's a time to humble."

Sherlocked nodded, pressing his folded hands to his lips and taking this in. He knew what he had to do.

"Order whatever you want, John." Sherlock said, handing him a menu. John glanced at him curiously before sitting down fully. They were in the same restaurant that they'd been in their first case together. If Sherlock had to lay it all on the line, he'd do it somewhere familar.

"Why are we back here, exactly?" John asked.

"Old time's sake?" Sherlock said with a forced smile, trying to calm the tingling in his stomach. He sounded like a love sick school girl.

"I remember running through the streets, chasing after a crazy taxi driver, if that's what you mean by old times."

Sherlock smiled again and their waiter, Angelo , came over. Again he nearly crushed Sherlock with hugs, saying that without him he'd be in prison. Sherlock bit his tounge to remind him that he had actually gone to prison and that Sherlock had simply lessened the sentence. Humble. He had to be humble. Right.

This was going to be difficult.

"Remember how when we came here beforthe people thought we were on a date?" John asked halfway through the meal. Sherlock had reluctantly ordered something, even though he had no appetite whatsoever. It was a strange chees. pasta combination but it didn't matter. He wasn't going to eat it.

"They gave us a candle to set the mood and everything. And I said "I'm not his date."

That was as good an opening as any. Well, as good as Sherlock was going to get, anyway. He reached forward and took John's hand. He felt a blush creeping up his neck and distantly wondered when he'd lost his mind. Sherlock Holmes does not blush.

"I'd like you to be."

John choked on the piece of bread he was chewing and Sherlocked silently prayed for help in this.

"You what?" he sputtered.

"I'd like you to be my date." he said slowly. "I've wanted you to be practically from the first moment I met you."

John watched him, an obvious look of shock on his face. But Sherlock pushed on. He'd just dig the grave a little deeper.

"Remember how I once said I didn't have friends? That I only had one? Well, I'd like my one friend to become more than that."

John sat back, his brown eyes wide. He blew out a breath and Sherlock looked at him nervously. But he didn't let to of his hand.

"It's just- we both have terrible memories of this day. And I thought it might be good to make it something more positive." Sherlock said, bowing his head.

"Like an anniversary. Of when two people finally stop lying to themselves and get together already."

Sherlock looked up so quickly, he might have given himself whiplash. John was watching him with a funny expression on his made Sherlock want to do something crazy. He needed a nicotine patch or something to sort out his muddled head. He'd definitely go to his mind palace after this.

"Sherlock, I would gladly be your date."

At this, Sherlock beamed so big that he felt like his face was going to split in two. John even had a small smile of his own. They just spent the next few moments, laughing softly to themselves, unsure what to do next. But the spell was broken when John's phone buzzed with a text. He glanced down at what it read and then laughed aloud.

"Look." he said, handing it to Sherlock. He took it from John and read the text.

"There's a memorial service at the Yard tonight for Sherock if you'd like to come."

Sherlock smiled devilishly. He had an idea.

At seven-thirty that night, Craig Lestrade was getting ready to read his speech for Sherlock's memorial service. He passed a hand over his eyes and walked up to the podium. Glancing down at the paper, he began,

"Tonight we remember the life of a great man. Three years ago, Sherlock Holmes passed away-"

And in that second, everyone in the room got a text that read,

"WRONG."


End file.
